red memory
by laurelsalexis
Summary: A series of buckynat drabbles. Unrelated & updated at random. Both 616 & MCU
1. Chapter 1

It's slow. It had been slow since the moment on the bridge. Nothing was right. Everything was wrong. So wrong. The pieces didn't fit. Hours, days, weeks, months. The pieces still didn't fit. Maybe they never would. A thought that put the fear inside of him. Maybe he would never find out who James Buchanan Barnes was. Staring at the Smithsonian did nothing. Would never do anything. Only make it feel as if his eyes would bleed, his psyche would break. He wanted to remember, so badly it felt as if it he would break, before something would allow for him to remember.

The HYDRA bases fell. One by one. The only thing that had helped to feel if was worthy enough to exist out of being the asset. He needed to be more than what he was as he stood on the bridge, shooting at her, shooting at him, destroying every one without thinking twice.

Thinking, if only it was so simple.

His mind wiped. Again and again. One, twice, three times. Unable to think for himself. All he was were the orders. Kill him. Kill her. Kill anyone he needed to. Succeed in the mission. Failure was not an option. He did not fail. Even as a little girl screamed for her father. He did not fail.

He failed now. Mission. Mission failed. Memories lost. Recovery slow, long, difficult, mind a haze, static, the vodka consumed only making it worse, as if the sips would tear him away forever.

Red hair sparks something one day, the one it belongs to useless, a stranger, unable to even begin to comprehend what he could have ever been through, certainly as the metal taps against the counter, eyes widening. It's never pretty.

Natalia.

One day he just wakes up. Natalia. Red hair. Training. Over and over. Eyes watching them without question, forcing them to work until they broke, lying against the mat. An ache to reach out fills him, empty, as empty as he had been before the night took him.

Another day. Another base. Lives stolen, as years were stolen from him, memories, everything. Lost. Gone. Nothing. Unable to pull.

"Natalia."

It slips one day, one day when he swears it's her. She's smooth, stopping for only a moment, he picks up on it, and let's her go. Let's her slip away, even as his arm reaches out for her. Instinct. Desire.

He never searches for her. She simply appears. Next to him, ordering a drink, Russian fluently slipping. Russian. His own greeting comes, looking at her.

A flash.

Showers. Beds. Destroying all in their wake. Breathing her in. Her skin, her body, a comfort brought, Natalia, he would whisper. Parting from her as fast as they would come together.

It's his time with the USSR that comes together first, as much as could be allowed. Steve. He wants to remember the name. Natalia is one he remembers more. Her. There. The scent of her bringing him back to her, their time together.

Она моя.

The bridge. Her. Him. His needing her, more than him, no matter he was the mission. Pieces. One by one. The puzzle. One day maybe the puzzle will be whole. If he's lucky. He's never lucky.

Her lips surge something in him, her body something else. It falls into a rhythm, just as they do, breathing together, being together. Over and over.

Natalia. James.

It's them. There. Together.

Fingers grace the scar. His scar. One he had given. Memory of the mission there, vaguely, in pieces. Gun rising. Complete the mission. All costs. The bullet leaves. Target falls. She falls.

Mission complete.

She squirms away, fingers touching the too smooth circle. His doing. To her. Natalia.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes meet. Something shared. The two of them, sharing more than he could imagine sharing with another. Products of something no one should be products of.

"James." It's all he hears. One day he just might actually be James.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** 616 Buckynat ; spoilers for Black Widow #18

* * *

Going away. That sounds nice.

Bucky never expected for her to go for it, so when she declines he's anything but surprised. No, he keeps going, sitting there quietly, wishing for things to be different. He's accepted that they won't be. That this is his fate, their fate.

It's worth than death, an idea he still stands behind. He has every single memory. From Russia to right before everything fell apart at the seams. Every happy memory. Ever not so happy one. Even when maybe they didn't get along swimmingly they are memories that he holds close.

Because she can't. She has nothing to speak of, calling him Barnes, now Bucky. Somehow, that's worse. Closer to James, but so far away. Everything is so far away.

She's better off this way, out of the trouble only he could bring. She brings trouble of her own. The girl he fell in love with is right there, right fucking there. Not that it's the same. No, it'll never be the same. He could be with her, right there, day and night. She'll never remember who he is.

God, he wished she said yes, but that's not the woman he knows, the woman he loves. Loved. He'll never really stop loving her. Doesn't have it in him. Barely has it in him to sit there and pretend that everything is fine, that she's just someone he knows because of the job, the mission.

He'd drop anything to come for her. No matter when she needed him. Just like now. Didn't even need to be thanked, only far too willing to be there for her. Always. Now and always.

But then she calls him Bucky and his face falls just enough, staring out ahead of him, desperately thankful she can't see his face. It's his name, sure, to a lot of people. Not to her. Never to her. It's not right. It'll never be right. It is what is it, but hell if he'll ever be able to hear it without his face turning into something akin to pure pain.

He longs for the day she calls him James, and actually understands the weight of the name.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** **prompt:** sleepy morning kisses that accidentally turn intense

minor spoilers for black widow #10

* * *

Bucky will later mumble that sleep is for the weak when he's staring into the cup of coffee he needs when his energy all but plummets when he's supposed to be doing something way more important.

Whenever he finds himself around a certain redhead, however, all of his priorities seem to shift. Who could blame him? He didn't think anyone could, not when so much of his life has been tied to hers since before he could even properly remember.

But when his eyes open for the first time that morning and she's looking at him with her own barely open eyes, he can't seem to care about what he should be doing. He only cares about what he could be doing. Certainly not caring about the should as she inches closer, the bed sheet slipping further down to expose herself to him. It's all so natural, as if no time passed between them. Mornings of their past she would do the same, kissing him just to tease, before she slips off. Work, she'd say, and the only thing he'd be finding was a cold shower.

She lingers, instead. She allows her fingertips to run over his arm and down his chest. The shiver causes his forehead to rest against hers, gaze moving back and forth between her eyes and her lips. He smirks when he thinks about what other places on his body her lips had been. The unstoppable urge to kiss her happens then, leaning forward just enough, to feel her lips.

His hand cups her face as he takes it slow, allowing them both to enjoy the moment as it presents itself. He never knows what kiss will be their last and he's losing himself in her lips. She's soft against him and as his fingers move through her hair does she remain as soft.

They break for a breath, to look at each other, smiles matching, as her finger traces her name along his chest. When his chest rises does she nuzzle against him, brushing her lips against his, but stopping herself from kissing him. The pattern of giving and taking remains for what feels longer than it was, before it fell as it usually did.

Neither were very good at playing nice and gentle, pretending to be something they weren't. Hard edges and dark nights followed each of them wherever they went. His bed is no exception.

"James," she whispers against his lips, brushing against them, a class smirk finding her all too easily.

The kiss is real after that. Lazy and dare he say sloppy, but real. It's not some dream he's had a thousand times over where he wakes up wishing he was somewhere else. She smells the same way she always had. Intoxicating, driving him wild, causing his grip to move to her neck, to become firm, his way of making certain she, this, all of it, is real.

It hardly takes any time at all before the beautiful reality before him sets in. She straddles him and he's never been more thankful in his life neither of them bothered to redress themselves after the night before. Half a thought he'd keep her like that, with him, forever.

Every part of him is awake then and the way she moves against him, slow, torturous almost, with reason, without pause, is cruel. He loves her more for it, if that's even possible.

Weakness was frowned upon when he was nothing more than the Winter Soldier, Natalia, so far gone from his mind. But he'll gladly be weak as she slides herself down on him and he can barely think.

 **Eager** , the only word to describe them then, the way he bites at her lips, the way she moves faster and harder, bringing him to a place where words mean nothing. Not when it's sweet, sweet Nat on him, when she's causing a rush to fill him. Something he couldn't possibly recreate with someone else.

The patience only lasts so long, because she's suddenly on her back and he's doing anything but showing mercy. Her hands end up pinned above her head, flesh to flesh, flesh to metal, holding onto each other, lips meeting again. Harder. Desperate. Breathing only done enough to live but the way she's driving him mad, wrapped her legs around his hips as he gives and takes for them both, making passion the driving force, not survival.

When she bites into his lip and draws the blood it's over. "James," is all that's repeated and soon it's "Natalia," he's whispering. The series of Russian phrases slip then, almost taking them back to their stolen nights in Russia where he thought they were so clever. A long road took them to where they were and he can't help but wonder how many times it went wrong, how many more times it'll go wrong.

One last kiss finds them before she's gone, leaving him lying there in a state that is pure bliss…mixing with something else he won't acknowledge until he's forced to.

And later when she gives him a final kiss goodbye, telling him she'll see him when she sees him, he'll do his best to remind himself they both have missions. They have lives. It might never be what they once had, when they were… **happy**.

The moon brought them back, but ultimately left just another crater.


End file.
